


Blood On My Name

by CaptainHoney



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Content Warning, Horror, Horror AU, I should be writing nice christmas stories not sad halloween stories sorry, Implied Past Violence, M/M, Stucky - Freeform, Suicidal Steve, Unhappy Ending, bank robber bucky, bank robber steve, bucky is a ghost, ghost au, ghost story, here are the spoilerific tags so please be mindful:, horror content warning, injury content warning, multiple attempted suicide content warning, please look after yourselves pals this is not a fun happy time, suicide content warning, unintentional self harm content warning, very vague 1940s setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 17:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12940599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainHoney/pseuds/CaptainHoney
Summary: ‘I’m cold, Stevie.’ The hand in his was slick and hot. ‘Don’t leave.’But he was already pulling his hand away, pressing a kiss to the dark hair. ‘Just wait here, ok? I won’t be long.’‘It’s so cold.’He was still half-dreaming when he woke, Bucky’s voice whispering in his ear.Steve stopped counting the days.





	Blood On My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Hey pals, as always, do let me know if there are any content warnings you'd like before you dive into this one.
> 
> (Everyone still wants Halloween fic right what month is it time is meaningless)

The air was colder in the mountains, most of the autumn leaves already fallen. The half-eaten moon shed sickly yellow light through the branches, making the cabin look unreal.The few remaining leaves rustled in the wind with a sound like old hands rubbing together for warmth.

Steve climbed out the jalopy and fumbled for the key. He’d expected to hear the call of night birds, but the engine must have frightened them off. The sound of the padlock clicking open and falling to the ground was like a gunshot in the silence, echoing across the lake at his back.

He kicked something on the threshold and it rolled away and back again into the light: a gas lantern. He fished a book of matches out of his pocket and lit it, flinching against the sudden bright. Shadows skittered away from him.

The single room was thick with dust and cobwebs, the windows opaque with grime. There was a thin mattress on a metal bed frame in one corner, a wood fuel stove and a sink in another, and a wooden table in the centre flanked by two rickety chairs. A shotgun that was more rust than barrel hung in an otherwise empty rack beside the door. Through the back window a little outhouse was just visible a short distance away.

Steve looked back out the open door across the lake. There looked to be only one other cabin with any light on, directly across the other side. He’d been assured that no one else lived up here this time of year, but in that moment it was a comfort to know that there was another soul out there, just as alone as he. Steve fetched his bag from the back seat and gave a little wave to the light across the way before he went inside, shutting the door on the night.

The first day he spent laid out on the thin mattress, hands and feet dangling over the edge, staring straight up at the ceiling. He mapped the whorls of timber, playing cartographer with the grain, until he imagined he could see the trajectory of his whole life up until this point laid out in the beams above him. The sun set again without him eating or moving. Finally it was too dark to see. He lit the lamp, but in the flare of the match his life had disappeared.

The second day he cleaned. He didn’t have much to work with, so he rinsed the blood out of the shirt he’d arrived in and tore it into strips. He soaked the rags in water and used them to clean the windows and wipe down the table and the little sink. He rinsed them again and scrubbed the floor, then took the mattress outside to air it. He cleaned the ashes from the stove and chopped enough wood to make a neat pile beside it and another at the back door. Then he stripped himself down and walked into the lake.

 

The cold punched him. Steve stayed underwater as long as he could, until his lungs were fighting harder than his thoughts. He broke the surface and took a gasping breath of air, less cold than lake water but bracing and crisp. Using handfuls of river sand he scrubbed at himself until his skin was pink and his knuckles were red. Then he went back into the cabin, dragging the mattress in after him, and methodically set a fire in the stove. He sat naked in front of it until the water rose off his skin in wisps of steam, then kept sitting for a long time after.

On the third day Steve sat at the table and counted out the money. He pulled it from the bag in handfuls and sorted it into neat piles by denomination. The whole table was soon covered in little piles of paper bills. Some of the notes were stuck together in clumps, some bearing only near-imperceptible drops of blood already turned the colour of rust. Steve did what he could, separating them carefully. The money turned his fingertips black with the grime of years of being passed from hand to hand, being shoved in mattresses and scrunched into pockets and counted with fresh-licked fingers. The blood turned it all russet-red. He considered burning it, shoving the whole lot back in the bag and tossing it into the stove, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Two tears dripped from his chin, making two bright spots on the bloody note in front of him.

‘I’m cold, Stevie.’ The hand in his was slick and hot. ‘Don’t leave.’

But he was already pulling his hand away, pressing a kiss to the dark hair. ‘Just wait here, ok? I won’t be long.’

‘It’s so cold.’ 

 

He was still half-dreaming when he woke, Bucky’s voice whispering in his ear. 

 

Steve stopped counting the days.

 

There was repetition, an endless litany of waiting and living and having to force himself into doing both. He had three months’ worth of food, enough to see him to the start of winter. Then he’d either get a message saying it was safe to come home, or he’d get a drop of another three months’ worth of supplies. Only the trees changed, shedding the last of their leaves. The air, too, got colder and colder. It seemed like snow would come early this year.

He found something growing a few metres from the cabin, on the trunk of a birch tree down near the edge of the lake. It seemed to be some kind of moss, or maybe a fungus, black and damp-looking. When Steve touched it, a cloud of grey spores rose up, clinging to his fingers. He brushed his hand against his shirt and they left streaks there. He forgot about it almost immediately upon turning away.

The light across the water burned through the windows of the cabin at night. It should not have seemed so bright from so far away, but sometimes Steve felt like he could still see it with his eyes closed, like it was right outside.It was warm, a sunny yellow against the distant white of the stars, and it beckoned to him. Sometimes he would fall asleep, just for a few moments, and would wake with a start as the light pulsed. Sometimes it became the beam of a torch shining straight in his face. Sometimes it was the flash of a gun muzzle as it went off. He hung clothes and bedding over the windows to block it out.

Steve cleaned the windows of the cabin every few days, for the sake of keeping himself occupied, and because they needed it. He had nothing to clean with other than water, and they clearly needed something stronger. Black grime kept creeping in at the edges of each pane. Daylight came weak and watery through the glass; the only thing that seemed to penetrate was the light of his neighbour.

 

The black moss seemed to be spreading. Steve found it in several spots leading down to the lake, smeared across tree trunks like blood from a wounded animal. It was on the ground too, springing out of the carpet of mouldering autumn leaves. He was careful not to touch it after the first time, so as not the release the spores, but it didn’t seem to need his help. There was a smell, too, like rot and iron.

 

The cabin across the lake was invisible in the day time. It must have been nestled deep in the trees, or else painted in such a fashion that it was cleverly disguised. But why have such a bright light if they wished to remain hidden? 

It would not have taken him long to walk the distance between them. What would he say? “Excuse me neighbour, would you mind closing your curtains at night?” Maybe he could just watch, see what sort of person he was dealing with. No one who lived in that place at that time of year could be a good person.

Steve kept the money under the mattress, but sometimes he pulled it out and sat it on the table, just to see it. Sometimes the sight of all those bills in their little piles almost managed to make him happy, or something close enough. He even felt a hint of lust, the same lust that had led him here. The blood wasn’t sticky anymore; it was barely even red.

 

‘One last job?’ Bucky’s voice was soft and warm in his ear. ‘Isn’t that what you always say?’

‘I mean it this time. We pull this one off, we can retire.’ He slotted their fingers together, resting his forehead against Bucky’s. It was always a marvel to him how well their bodies fit together, like they’d been made for each other. ‘We’ll hide out in the mountains for a few weeks, just you and me, then when it’s safe we’ll head across the border.’

‘Just you and me?’ Bucky repeated teasingly. ‘Aren’t you worried I’ll get bored of you?’

‘Constantly. But I figured if you’re still here then you must like me or something,’ Steve said, smiling affectionately.

‘Or something,’ he replied, pressing their lips together for a moment. ‘Alright, one last job. I even promise not to kill you.’

‘How considerate.’ They kissed again, and for a while there wasn’t anything left to say.

 

Steve woke feeling warm and content. He could hear Bucky moving around outside, and for a moment he considered calling him back to bed. Then he awoke a little more and realised where he was. The sounds outside stopped. Steve bolted outside, awkwardly pulling on his boots as he went, but there was nothing there. He walked all around the cabin, but apart from more of the strange black moss nothing seemed out of the ordinary. 

 

He must have been taking the money out of its hiding place in his sleep. Sometimes he would shamble out of bed to find it sitting on the table in neat stacks. Other times it would be scattered across the floor, like it had been dropped by someone in a hurry. Steve would pack it up quickly and put it all away again, perturbed. 

 

He dreamed that he was suffocating. Something was trying to claw its way up his throat, making him retch. It was in his mouth, his nostrils, its edges cutting him. Dollar bills spewed from his mouth. They fluttered to the floor, slicing his lips and tongue, and still they choked him. He woke gasping for air, mouth dry and tasting of blood.

 

Steve dismantled the jalopy in chunks, cleaning and greasing and tweaking before reassembling. He removed the seats and took them to the lake, submerging them and scrubbing the bloodstains with sand. Russet clouds rose in the water and swirled around him. He left the seats to dry on the little timber jetty. 

He could do nothing about the dirty engine oil or the worn fan belt, but he removed the worst of the rust and cleaned the chrome as best he could. Then he made a pot of coffee and poured some into a chipped enamel mug and walked down to the water. 

It was late afternoon, but the sun had been unseasonably warm that day and for the first time the scene felt cozy. Steve sat on one of the chairs, now dry to the touch, and sipped his drink. A cool breeze made ripples on the surface of the lake. Sunlight glowed on the edge of autumn leaves and made golden the curves of every cloud. He sat for a long time, watching the sky turn from blue to lemon to dusty rose. 

The light went on across the lake.

Steve stretched languidly, sweater riding up over his hips. There was a breeze now, like cool fingers across his skin, and he shivered pleasantly. The air was crisp and sweet here. It smelled like pine and earth and clean water. Despite the coffee his eyelids felt comfortably heavy. He considered, for a brief moment, sleeping right there under the stars. He felt a shift in the air as his companion moved in the seat beside him, and turned to voice his suggestion, but the seat was empty.

Steve jumped to his feet, knocking over his mug. It spun down the jetty, spattering coffee dregs in an ugly brown arc. 

Steve retrieved the mug and walked rapidly back to the cabin. He admonished himself for imagining things, told himself he just needed to sleep more. He just needed rest, that was all. 

He dreamed of someone waiting for him, just out of reach.

 

It snowed that night. 

Ice spiderwebbed across the windowpanes and chill air blew snowflakes under the door. The pipes rattled and screamed when Steve tried to fill the kettle, so he opened the door to walk down to the lake. 

Frosty air chilled Steve’s lungs as he inhaled, so cold that his breath hitched in his throat. Everything was white and silent, except for the dark trunks of trees and a ring of dark earth around the cabin.

Steve examined the circle of dirt. It looked like some kind of animal track, though what kind was hard to make out. Were there wolves in these woods? A bear, maybe? There was a set of tracks leading up to the front door from the lake, barely visible now. Steve bent to examine them and gasped, cold air turning his very blood to ice. They were human footprints, as though from a heavy set of boots. 

He followed the track around the cabin, but nowhere did he find footprints leading away again. There was nothing in the outhouse or the surrounding trees. He checked the truck bed and cabin of the jalopy. then climbed on top of it to check the roof of the building: nothing but snow. Coffee long forgotten, he began to examine every nook and cranny of the interior, but he was alone. 

 

Steve put on his sheepskin coat and started marching through the trees. He found a path that seemed to lead around the lake. The water was a slab of iron flashing dully through the trees on his right. The only sounds were the crunch of his boots, the huff of his breath, the thudding of blood in his ears. He wasn’t sure how long he walked for; time slipped away until he was measuring not the seconds but the growing sting of his fingers and the wetness of his feet.

 

The trees were a little thicker on the other side, so Steve veered off the path to the shore so he would know when he was directly opposite his own cabin. His lodging looked small and mean and cold from so far away. He supposed it looked the same up close as well. 

He found the place in the trees that he was sure the light shone through, and marched forward. Low shrubs blocked his path but he beat them back, bearing the cuts to his face and hands. He pushed through until he was sure he must have gone too far, or been turned around somehow. 

The trees seemed suddenly oppressive, and he turned and ran back the way he had come, falling to his knees when he reached the shore. He looked up across the water, gasping for breath, to the jetty. A dark figure was standing there, watching him. It raised an arm, and though it was too far to make out Steve knew it pointed right at him. There was a blinding light and he shielded his eyes. When he raised his head the opposite shore was empty. 

 

Steve bolted to his feet and started sprinting back around the lake. He slipped several times on the stony shore, until his hands and knees were a mess of blood and torn flesh and he was soaked almost to the waist, but he didn’t stop until he was back at his cabin.

The door was open, creaking slightly in the breeze. He entered cautiously, fists raised, but the room seemed empty. There was no one in the main structure, or the outhouse, or in the jalopy, or among the trees. Beside the open door the only other sign that someone had been there was the money, scattered across the table. Steve tried to remember if it had been there when he’d awoken. Had he moved it again in the night? He couldn’t recall.

‘Hey asshole!’ he yelled into the trees, voice hoarse from lack of use. ‘Why don’t you stop lurking and come out here?’

The silence was smothering.

 

Steve brought in as large a pile of firewood and as much water as he could manage. Then he carefully boarded up the doors and nailed the windows shut. He stripped down everything he’d been using to cover the glass so he’d be able to see if anyone was outside. Then he waited.

 

Days passed without incident. No golden light shone through the windows. The money stayed under the mattress. No footsteps appeared in view of the windows, no faces pressed themselves against the glass. At first he tried not to sleep, but when he eventually succumbed to exhaustion Steve slept deeply and without dreams. 

 

Almost two weeks went by, in which Steve knew something approaching peace for the first time since the robbery. He whittled little figures out of firewood, humming to himself as the air grew fetid and the windows turned black with strange mould. The snowdrifts grew deeper outside, and the lake froze until it was just more whiteness.

 

Steve took the shotgun down from above the door and carefully took it apart, cleaning it with an oily rag. It was flimsy, poorly made; there were holes in the barrel where the rust had eaten away at it. He put the barrel experimentally between his teeth, spitting it out quickly. His tongue was coated in red flakes. He rinsed his mouth but for hours all he could taste was iron and salt. 

 

Steve woke to the sound of knocking. He rose, yawning, and opened the door. Bucky stood before him, dressed in a charcoal grey suit. He pushed his hat back and grinned. 

‘Are you ready for one last job?’ Bucky held out a hand. 

Steve grabbed Bucky and pulled him close, crushing him into an embrace. He buried his face in Bucky’s neck. 

‘It’s been so long, Buck. Why’s it been so long?’ 

‘Took me a while to find you, ‘s all,’ Bucky said softly, wrapping his hands in Steve’s shirt. 

‘You’re so cold. Come inside.’ Steve stepped back and pulled him through the doorway. Bucky smiled up at him. There was blood in his teeth. ‘What happened?’

‘You left me, Stevie. You left me out in the cold,’ his arms wrapped around Steve’s neck and he whispered into Steve’s mouth, ‘So cold.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Steve said, voice cracking, ‘but it all happened so fast, and I- I’m sorry, Bucky. C’mon, let’s get you warm.’

Bucky tangled his fingers into Steve’s hair and he pressed their lips together. He tasted like blood and smelled like rot and damp. ‘Don’t leave me. I’m so cold.’

‘I know, Buck. I know.’ Steve tried to pull away, but Bucky’s grip was so tight. He looked down, over Bucky’s shoulder, at the blood blossoming through the charcoal suit he had died in. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

Bucky leaned his head back just enough to look Steve in the eyes. His expression was angry, accusing. He tried to say something, but his voice was lost in a wet gurgle of blood. Steve started to scream as Bucky kissed him, and the sound was lost to the dead, cold mouth.

 

Steve woke drenched in cold sweat with the sheet tangled around his throat. He snapped upright and turned to the door; it was still boarded shut. Daylight struggled to make itself known through the blackened windows, so Steve lit the lantern. The shadows scurried away from its light, revealing nothing. 

He took in the piles of rubbish, the mould darkening each pane of glass, noticed for the first time the stale, acrid smell. Despite the cold he felt suddenly hot, and threw back the sheets. He bit back a scream, almost dropping the lantern; the moss had spread to the mattress, forming a large shape in the bed beside him. It looked almost like the indent of a human figure that had been curled beside him in the night. 

Steve leapt from the bed, raising a cloud of grey spores. He ran to the front door, tearing at the boards with his hands. Splinters pierced his skin and three of his nails tore, but he got the boards off and flung the door inward. The stream of sunlight was bright as a muzzle flash. The snowdrift collapsed onto the floor, soaking his pyjama pants as he stumbled outside. He fell forward into the snow, gasping at the sudden iciness.

Half-walking, half-crawling, he made his way to the edge of the lake. He was dressed in just an undershirt and pyjama bottoms, which were soon soaked. He didn’t notice the cold, the way his breath clouded in front of him or how his fingernails were turning purple. 

Steve stepped out onto the frozen water. The ice grabbed at him, biting at his feet, keeping little pieces. He left a little trail of red as he walked out to where the ice was thinnest. It groaned beneath him. A crack formed with a sound like a gunshot and Steve sobbed as he kept walking. Another crack fired, then another, and with each sound Steve wailed. Then a fourth crack echoed across the lake and the ice splintered beneath him and he plunged down, down into black oblivion.

 

A while later Steve lay still on the edge of the lake, coughing up burning cold water. He’d panicked as soon as he’d been submerged - or maybe he’d come to his senses - and dragged himself back onto the ice. Someone sat beside him on the shore, rubbing his back in soothing circles, but when he tried to look at them there was no one there. 

He dragged himself to his feet and hobbled slowly back to the cabin. He cleared the ashes from the stove and made a neat pile of kindling, lighting it before adding some logs. He built it up, clumsily stripping off his wet clothes and tossing them on the flames. The fire sputtered and almost went out, but he stoked it carefully until the fabric dried enough to burn. He heated water in the kettle and washed himself while standing at the table. When his limbs were a little less stiff he dressed warmly, then started tearing the mattress and bedding into strips and feeding them to the flames. With the axe he used for firewood he turned all the furniture to splinters and burned it. He threw everything else out into the snow, until the only things left were him, the axe and the money. Then he sat cross-legged in front of the stove, staring into the flames.

 

Steve fed each bill into the fire, barely noticing as the flames licked his skin. The dried blood bubbled and popped as the notes curled into ash. Icy hands wrapped around his waist and frozen lips pressed themselves against his scalp, the nape of his neck, the spot beneath his ear that was so tender. 

‘Don’t leave me, Steve,’ the thing’s voice whined in his ear. ‘I’m so cold. Don’t leave me again.’

The bank notes grew slick and heavy with blood, clinging to his fingers. He scraped them off on the burning logs, blisters forming on his fingers.

‘Please, Stevie.’ The hands tugged his shirt up, tracing his chest. ‘Steve, I’m so cold.’

Blood ran through the ashes, dripping onto the floor. Steve continued to feed the notes into the fire one at a time. 

‘Steve.’ A hand tugged his head back. Lips brushed his throat. ‘Just you and me now, remember?’

He shrugged the hands off. Blood poured out of the stove, forming a sticky puddle around him. There were hardly any bills left, hardly anything to show for what he’d lost.

‘So coooold.’ The hands yanked at him more forcefully. ‘You promised me, Stevie. I’m soo cooold.’

‘I know.’ His voice was all jagged edges. ‘I’m sorry, Bucky.’

‘Steeeve.’ Something struck his face and he felt the flesh split, blood trickling down his cheek. ‘I’m  _ cold _ .’

Steve surrendered the last dollar. The light of the fire grew blindingly bright and huge. Something tried to claw its way out of the stove towards him, something that looked like the torso of a man, waist disappearing into the cinders. It reached out for him, blistering his skin where it cupped his face. 

‘Don’t leave me, Steve,’ it gurgled, airway choked with blood, ‘I’m so cold.’

Its hands dropped, lifeless, becoming patterns of ash on the floor. Steve brushed away the tears that were stinging his wounded cheeks and rose to his feet. He left the cabin and climbed into the driver's seat of the jalopy, starting the engine and driving back down the mountain, to the gallows that awaited him. 

 


End file.
